The Trickster

Its poison in his lungs,

its gun against his skull.

It whispers in odd tongues,

Promoting all that is dull.

It slithers up and down,

from his head to toes.

It warrants constant frown,

From it fear does flow.

It holds its current fixture,

he knows not when it will go.

Anxiety plays like a trickster,

Ill humour striking low blows.